Always with You
by argetangel
Summary: She already knows you love her. Dramione. Oneshot.


**Always with You  
**

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Heavy lids struggle open to reveal bloodshot eyes. Sunlight streams in, illuminating the living room, painting everything in a falsely cheery light.

Brushing platinum blonde locks out of your face, you ignore the stale taste of sleep in your mouth, your protesting back as you get off the couch on which you spent the night.

You walk to her bedroom, resolutely resisting the urge to enter the kitchen and cease the incessant dripping of the tap; she is more important. Your bare feet pad silently on sun-warmed teak. You detachedly notice that your voice is hoarse and slightly raspy from sleep, but it doesn't matter, because she's not there to hear you call her name.

"Hermione?" You call again, just in case. You knock on her door, then inch it open. The empty room glares at you with cold silence.

You wonder why your chest aches so; you never expected her to be home anyway.

Yet, you can't bring yourself to regret, even as the memories of yesterday assail you, and transport you back to the scene that breaks your heart over again.

You see her, standing in front of you, hand clasped over her mouth, face cast over with an emotion you can't quite place. No doubt, you see joy written in her expression, but something flickers in her eyes, and somewhere, deep inside, it is like a tiny knife twisting in your gut. You ignore it momentarily, and instead flash her that dazzling smile that always has her melting against you. Except, this time, it backfires, and instead you see a stricken look passing over her delicate features. You know confusion is creasing your brow, and you walk towards her, arms reaching out, preparing to wrap around her slender waist.

To your utmost horror, she backs away, abject fear etched into every nuance of her face. The tiny knife in your gut transforms into entire volleys of flaming arrows, piercing your heart. Before you can open your mouth to speak, she beats you to the chase, "I have to go."

You are left frozen in the empty living room, the image of her disappearing back replaying over and over again in your mind's eye.

Telling someone you love her isn't supposed to end up like that.

She doesn't return after that. You spend the rest of the night on the couch, hoping with all your heart to hear her approaching footsteps. You pray to more deities than you know exist, that she will come back, but apparently have committed too many sins to be struck of the black list, for she doesn't return. You stare dazedly into her vacant room and absently note the pristine condition of her unslept-in bed.

And you wonder, what you've done wrong. All you've been rewarded for your pains is a crick in the neck from the night spent on the couch, waiting vainly for her appearance. That, and an aching hollowness in your heart.

You collapse bonelessly on her bed; the softness of the red and gold envelops you like it always has when she was around. But she isn't around anymore. You bring your hand up to rub tiredly at your face, so absolutely exhausted you are.

Your fingers come away wet.

It is only then that you realize that silent tears have been streaming down your face all this while. You haven't cried since you were twelve, and here you are, a grown man at twenty-three, weeping. _Over a damned chit. _Somehow, Lucius' voice is taking over your mind; maybe you _are _going crazy.

In your preoccupation, you miss the jangling of keys, and the click of the front door. You don't hear soft footsteps pad across the hallway, and you don't notice the familiar figure standing at her doorway, watching you cry on her bed.

You do, however, hear a voice calling out your name in that loving way she always has, _"Draco"_.

You turn around, only to see a figure you've seen everyday for the past two years. Only a bush of untamed hair, a figure slightly too skinny to be ideal, skin too white to pass as healthy. You see a vision. Crazy hair becomes a wild, lustrous mass of silken locks. Bony figure becomes a lithe slimness. Pale complexion gives off a radiant glow.

She's _back_.

You ascertain that you are dreaming. Or crazy.

-

"Draco." She repeats, familiarly warm voice now tinged with worry and something else you can't quite place. "I'm sorry."

She enters the room, approaching you, eyes suspiciously bright.

You pinch yourself, hard. Merlin's balls, that _hurt_.

This is no dream, you realize with dawning comprehension. In fact, your nerves seem to choose this time to become supremely aware of your surroundings. You can feel each individual fiber of Hermione's silk comforter under your sweaty palms. You can feel the warmth of the sun. You can hear each soft thud of her feet on the teak floor. You can hear the distant chirping of birds outside. You can sense the crackle of magic from the palpable tension.

You mentally curse. Why couldn't these heightened instincts have come six years ago, when they would have been much more useful in helping you catch that Snitch and win the Quidditch Cup?

Instead, they just serve to make you more uncomfortable faced with the approach of the witch you love, because you're not sure if she loves you back. Though you try not to think that thought often; it causes a kneading ache to gnaw within your chest, and your stomach tightens painfully.

Unconsciously, you start backing away, though it's not like you have very much space to flee, given how you're almost at the edge of the bed already. Detachedly, you wonder why you're even acting this way, but that train of thought is soon discarded, when the witch _pounces_.

And proceeds to cry herself silly in your arms.

You want to apologize, despite the fact that you don't know what you're sorry for. After all, why do you need to apologize? It was _her_ who made you cry, made you worry, made you fall in love with her. Nevertheless, you still want to apologize. You want to say that you love her, but no words come. Instead, you soundlessly wrap your arms around her sobbing figure. You try to will the words out of your suddenly clogged throat, but to no avail.

And then, you realize. Even as her slim arms encircle your back, and warm tears soak through your shirt, you realize. There is no need for words.

She already knows you love her.

She raises her head, eyes shining with the soft light of love. Your heart skips a beat as she opens her mouth: at long last, she is going to reciprocate your love.

A sharp slap descends upon your head, and you stare up at her, bewildered.

"Malfoy, I know you're filthy rich, but couldn't you have turned the tap off properly?"

You grin as you see her trademark bushy hair bounce out of the room towards the kitchen. You know you'll always love her, even as you stare at the paper heart she pressed into your hand when she slapped down on your head. You'll forever be there for her.

-


End file.
